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When Julian Bashir bought a copy of Solar Festivals of the Alpha Quadrant, he did not understand what he was doing. Julian bought the book as a gift for his mysterious friend and lunch companion Garak. Of course, given the nature of their relationship, if Julian had known that Garak would actually like the book, he wouldn't have bought it.
It all began on an otherwise unremarkable morning on Deep Space Nine. An anomalous fluctuation in the wormhole had shorted out half of the station's systems, and the senior staff had been forced to stay up all night dealing with the aftermath. In other words, it was Tuesday.
While Dax and the science team worked to determine the source of the anomaly, and O'Brien led a team of engineers in station repairs, Julian had spent the night patching up assorted station residents who had been burned, electrocuted, or hit by flying shrapnel from malfunctioning heating units, replicators, and in the case of one very unfortunate ensign, a sonic shower.
By 0800, the stream of patients coming into the infirmary had slowed to a trickle, and the injuries gone from potentially life-threatening to mildly annoying. The night shift nurses had long since gone home to rest, and the day shift team insisted that he do the same. They promised to comm him if anything more interesting than a dislocated finger showed up.
The problem was that Julian was wound up. He ought to go straight back to his quarters and get whatever sleep he could, but if he tried to jump straight from work to sleep, he'd just end up staring at the ceiling for hours. And besides, he was hungry.
The Replimat was effectively non-functional that morning, so Julian made his way to Quark's. Perhaps not the best place to relax and unwind, but it was generally at least a little bit quieter in the mornings than it was at night. He took a seat at the bar, and after some consideration of the options on the limited menu (“the Chief hasn't had time yet to properly fix my replicators,” Quark complained), he ordered a plate of waffles and an extra-large Tarkalean tea.
Quark pressed him for information about the state of the station's systems and the likelihood that the anomaly would become a recurring issue. Julian had little information to offer in either case, and so their conversation turned to other topics.
“You might be interested to know,” said Quark, “that there's a freighter coming in tonight with all kinds of unique gifts for sale.”
“Why would I be interested to know that?” Julian asked, in between bites of waffle.
“Well,” said Quark. “You and Garak seem to be pretty close these days.”
“What exactly are you implying?” said Julian.
“Nothing untoward, I'm sure,” said Quark. I just assumed you'd be wanting to get him something for the rekari festival.”
“The what?” said Julian.
***
“Why are you asking me?” said Kira, looking up from a stack of reports on the anomaly with a look of extreme irritation on her face.
“Well,” said Julian, “I can't very well ask Garak, can I? Even if I could trust him to tell me the truth, it would defeat the whole point of asking the question.” It occurred to him to wonder whether it might be insensitive, asking the Major for information about a Cardassian holiday. Oh well, he thought. Too late now. Nothing to do but press on. “Quark was a veritable fountain of information,” he added, “but given that he let slip that he gets a cut of the sales from that freighter that just docked, I thought I should get a second opinion about any gift-giving advice he's offering.”
Kira stared at him blankly. “You know, doc,” she said finally, “I think that's the most intelligent thing you've said all week.”
Julian bounced a little in his seat. “So what can you tell me?” he asked.
Kira sighed and pushed the pile of padds to one side.
“It's a pretty popular holiday,” she said. “It's tied to the summer solstice on Cardassia. Lavish meals, lots of drinking.” She bared her teeth. “It was always a good time to run resistance operations. Infrastructure targets would be short-staffed, and important people would be drunk and vulnerable.”
“And there were gifts?” Julian pressed. He wasn't actually oblivious to the Major's tone, but he wasn't about to be distracted by it.
“Yes, doctor,” she said. “There were gifts.” For a moment, Julian thought she might not elaborate unless he pushed some more, but then she huffed and leaned forward. “Small gifts. Tokens. Exchanged between family members, lovers, and close friends.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “If Quark was trying to talk you into buying something extravagant, you were right not to trust him.”
“What kinds of tokens?” said Julian.
“How should I know?” said Kira. “It's not like any of them ever bought me anything.”
Julian opened his mouth to ask another question, but before he could get out a single syllable, Kira held up her hand.
“I really need to get back to work,” she said, grabbing for the top padd in the pile. “I'm sure you'll figure it out.”
***
“Couldn't help overhearing,” said Jadzia, falling into step beside Julian as he headed out of ops. “Maybe I can help.”
“Do you know anything about Cardassian gift-giving traditions?” said Julian.
“A little,” said Jadzia. “Did I ever tell you about the time I spent with Iloja of Prim?”
“No,” said Julian, his interest piqued by her tone.
“Well,” said Jadzia. “That is a long story for another day. But I do know a thing or two about the rekari festival.” She grinned. “Come on,” she said. “Let's go shopping.”
***
According to Jadzia, the small gifts exchanged during the rekari festival were symbolic. The idea was to find a token that reflected on your relationship with the other person. “So, for instance, if two people spent a lot of time outside in a shared garden,” she said, “the one might get the other a plant, or an assortment of seeds. Or a big floppy sun hat.”
Julian wasn't entirely sure if she was serious about that last example, but the mental image of Garak in a big floppy sun hat was enough to put a grin on his face and keep it there as they browsed the stock on the freighter.
They had been at it for only ten minutes when Julian spotted it. A stack of old-fashioned paper books. Jadzia came up behind him and watched as he started sorting through the pile.
“A book?” said Jadzia.
“A book,” said Julian. “We spend a lot of time talking about books.” He picked up a generic PI thriller, inspected it for a moment, then pushed it away. “Well,” he added, picking up what appeared to be a Tellarite cookbook, “arguing might be a better word.”
“You argue about books?” said Jadzia.
“Yeah,” said Julian, pushing aside a couple of volumes of Vulcan poetry, an illustrated House at Pooh Corner, and a vintage Klingon medical textbook. “I swear, he does it on purpose.” After a moment's thought, he picked both the textbook and the Winnie-the-Pooh back up. As long as he was here, he might as well pick up a few things for himself.
“Does what on purpose?” said Jadzia.
“Picks out books he knows I'll hate,” said Julian.
“Is that so?” said Jadzia, and something in her voice made Julian look up at her.
“What?” said Julian.
“Nothing,” said Jadzia. “It's just ... I really should tell you about the time I spent with Iloja sometime.”
Julian looked at her, trying to figure out what that was supposed to mean.
“Okay,” he said, finally. “I look forward to it.” He turned his attention back to the books. And there it was. Solar Festivals of the Alpha Quadrant.
The cover illustration showed an Andorian woman striding across a snowy field, holding what appeared to be a Christmas wreath made out of Bolian peppers. The back cover copy declared the book to be “a comprehensive guide to the equinox and solstice festivals of forty-two different species.” It promised to “allow the reader to share in the traditions of other worlds” and to “reveal the commonalities we all share.”
Garak would hate it.
It was perfect.
***
Julian was, to put it mildly, surprised when Garak, claiming to be inspired by his new book, started up a station holiday group.
Although not, perhaps, as surprised as Miles O'Brien was when his wife, Keiko, joined it.
***
“It's not about the holidays themselves, Miles,” said Keiko. “It's about getting together.”
The members of Garak's group, a motley assortment composed mostly of Promenade shop owners and Starfleet spouses, met every second Thursday, in a different set of quarters each time. They sampled teas and wines from their respective homeworlds, and the host supplied snacks, and they worked on stuff. Usually until about 2300.
“But that's not the point,” said Keiko. “The point is intercultural understanding, and building community here on the station.”
Miles tried a different tack. “Okay,” he said. “But Garak? The Cardie tailor?”
Keiko gave Miles a look that was roughly equal parts pity and disgust. “Don't talk like that,” she said. “Garak's very nice.”
“He's almost definitely a spy,” said Miles.
“Maybe he is,” said Keiko. “That doesn't mean he can't have friends. And besides,” she added, “it's not like we're discussing Federation military secrets. We're having drinks, and making stuff.”
“Making stuff,” Miles repeated.
Keiko held up the bundle in her hand. “It's wrapping paper,” she said. “Did you know that the Trill also have a tradition of wrapping gifts in colourful paper? So do the Ferengi. Caitians do something similar, but they tend to prefer printed boxes. Or gift bags.”
“You're making paper?”
“Decorating paper,” said Keiko. “This is hand-printed paper. Completely un-replicated. Do you know how much this would cost on a world that uses currency?”
***
On a Friday morning, a few weeks later, Miles came home from an away mission to find a dozen bunches of Andorian holly leaves, dipped in gold paint, hanging from the living room ceiling to dry.
That was followed soon after by the stencilling weekend. A weekend when Miles thought that if he didn't keep moving, Keiko would stencil him.
And the less said about the homemade Vulcan meditation candles, the better.
Two weeks after that incident, Miles found a bag of white, rectangular objects about the size of his thumb sitting on the coffee table. He picked up the bag and eyed it suspiciously.
“They're erasers,” said Keiko.
“Erasers?” said Miles.
“Pencil erasers,” said Keiko. “Rala Kei got them for us.”
“Who?” said Miles.
“Rala Kei,” said Keiko. “She runs the art supply shop on the Promenade.”
“Oh,” said Miles.
“She sold you those crayons you bought for Molly last month?” said Keiko.
“Right,” said Miles. He looked at the bag again. “What d'you need erasers for, anyway?”
“We're making stamps,” said Keiko.
“Stamps,” said Miles.
“Out of erasers,” said Keiko. “I need a metallic ink stamp pad. Rala doesn't stock metallic ink stamp pads. Do you know where I might find one? Or a replicator pattern for one?”
“I... can look around,” said Miles.
Keiko beamed at him. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said. “I could also use some more gold paint. Oh, and we need some of those snap things that go into Christmas crackers.”
“Some of those what things?” said Miles.
“The exploding things you pull,” said Keiko. “Christmas is the next holiday on our list, and Rom really wanted to try making Christmas crackers. Do you know where we could get the exploding things?”
Miles didn't have the faintest idea where one might find the exploding things for Christmas crackers on a Cardassian-built station in Bajoran space. He wouldn't have known where to find the exploding things for Christmas crackers if they'd been on Earth.
What he did know was that there was a basket of gold-dipped holly leaves under the table, spiced moba fruits drying on the heating unit in their bedroom and blocks of wax for candles stacked five deep on the computer console.
“Did you know,” Keiko said suddenly, “that there are only thirty-four shopping days left until Christmas?”
Miles did not know this. He opened his mouth. He shut it. Then he opened it again, and when he did, he said something he had been careful not to say for weeks. He said, “I thought this thing wasn't about Christmas. Or any of the other holidays.”
He immediately regretted the words as Keiko's expression darkened.
“Don't make fun of me, Miles,” she said.
“Uh-oh,” thought Miles.
“What?” said Keiko.
“I didn't say that,” said Miles.
“You said 'uh-oh,'” said Keiko.
“I thought 'uh-oh,'” said Miles. “I didn't say 'uh-oh.' Thinking 'uh-oh' isn't the same as saying 'uh-oh.' They don't lock you up for thinking you want to strangle someone.”
“What,” said Keiko.
“Uh-oh,” said Miles.
Miles slept on the sofa that night.
***
Keiko didn't say a word about it the next morning, not until Molly was up and dressed and fed and safely packed off for a playdate with the rambunctious daughters of one of the station's Bajoran nurses. She was sitting at the table, with both hands wrapped around her favourite tea cup, when she looked up and said, “Do you know what my life is like, Miles?”
Miles suspected – correctly – that she wasn't looking for an answer. So he kept his mouth shut.
“My life,” said Keiko, “is like a shuttle. And not one of those sleek Starfleet shuttles like the ones starship crews use on away missions. More like... a commercial commuter shuttle. I am a shuttle. Hauling everyone from one place to another. To school and to art classes and to now-it's-time-to-get-up and to now-it's-time-to-go-to-bed. And every so often, we make an unscheduled stop at my-husband-is-gone-on-a-dangerous-mission-and-who-knows-when-or-even-if-he'll-be-back. At possession-by-an-alien-entity, or railroaded-by-a-corrupt-alien-justice-system, or caught-in-a-freak-transporter-accident, or infected-by-a-bizarre-space-virus. And through it all, I'm the pilot and the porter and the cook and the maintenance crew. I scan the tickets and I stack the luggage and I clean the dishes, and I do it alone. Light-years from my friends and my career and my home. And do you know where that shuttle is going, Miles?”
Miles didn't want to know where the shuttle was going. He had a feeling it was headed straight into an uncharted asteroid.
“No,” said Miles. “I don't know where the shuttle is going.”
Keiko leaned over the table.
“That shuttle limps along through the year, Miles. Through Valentine's Day and Easter and First Contact Day, not to mention all of the Bajoran holidays we celebrate here on the station. Past a planet called First Day of School and the moon of Halloween and through an asteroid field called Your Sister Is Visiting. And do you know what's at the end of the line? Do you know where my shuttle is heading?”
Miles looked around nervously. He didn't want to get this wrong. He would have been happy to say where the shuttle was heading if he knew he was going to get it right. Was Keiko going to leave him? Maybe that shuttle was heading straight for d-i-v-o-r-c-e.
“Not at Christmas,” he mumbled.
“Exactly,” said Keiko. “To the last stop on the route. Christmas dinner. It's supposed to be something I look forward to, Miles. It's supposed to be a heartwarming family occasion.”
“Christmas dinner,” said Miles, cautiously. It seemed like a reasonably safe thing to say.
Keiko nodded.
“With a turkey, and stuffing, and everything,” said Miles.
“Which, I should add, is your family tradition,” said Keiko. “Not mine.” She drained her cup and set it down on the table.
“D'you... want to do something different this year?” Miles ventured.
“No,” said Keiko. “I don't... Miles, I like Christmas. Or, I used to. I feel like, maybe, if I get everything done early, maybe I can enjoy it properly again. And maybe if I use it to make more of a connection with some of the others around here, I won't feel so isolated. That's what this is all about.”
Miles walked around the table and came to stand beside her. “Tell me what I can do,” he said.
Keiko reached out and laid a hand on his arm.
“Some of the officers from Earth and their families are planning a fundraiser on Christmas Day. For the War Orphans Fund. After we have breakfast and open presents, I want to take Molly and help out.”
“That sounds ... good,” said Miles.
“Which means,” said Keiko, “that you'll need to look after the turkey.”
“Of course,” said Miles. “I can do that.”
***
Miles didn't fully understand what he had agreed to do until Christmas Eve. The presents were wrapped and under the tree (a real Fraser fir from a shipment that Quark had somehow managed to arrange), and he was snuggled up, warm and safe, in bed, with his wife curled up beside him. It was easily one of his favourite moments of the year.
“Did you take the turkey out to thaw?” Keiko asked sleepily.
“Yes,” said Miles. “Of course.”
Of course, he hadn't. But he wasn't about to admit that he had forgotten to do the one thing she'd asked of him. So Miles lay in bed, his eyes closed, monitoring his wife's breathing, and waiting.
Forty minutes went by before he dared to move.
“Keiko?” he said softly.
There was no answer. Keiko didn't even stir.
Miles gingerly lifted her hand off his shoulder and paused, waiting to see if she would wake. When she didn't, he rolled himself off the bed in slow motion, dropping to the cold, hard floor, where he, once again, waited.
Keiko didn't move.
Holding his breath, Miles crawled out of the bedroom.
There was no turkey in the freezer. There wasn't anything in the freezer. Refrigeration units, with freezers, were standard issue in family quarters on the station, but most of the time, the O'Briens relied on the replicator. Even for Christmas dinner, they relied mostly on the replicator. There were patterns for most of the essentials – green beans, mashed potatoes, turnips, brussels sprouts, cranberries to make sauce with – but a whole roast turkey was, quite simply, too big for a small, personal-use replicator to handle. So they always picked up a real turkey and kept it in the freezer.
Or, more accurately, Keiko always picked up a real turkey and kept it in the freezer.
And that was when Miles realized that looking after the turkey, the thing he had promised to do, meant getting the turkey as well as putting it in the oven.
Miles spent the next several minutes pacing, trying to decide what to do. He went back to the bedroom and stood in the doorway, watching his wife sleep, and imagining the Christmas Day waiting for him. He imagined everything, from Molly's first delighted squeal in the morning, to the moment when the girls came home from the fundraiser, expecting a turkey dinner. He imagined the look on Keiko's face when he walked across the room with a platter of turkey-on-rye sandwiches – the only turkey dish their replicator was programmed for – and set it down on the table next to her handmade crackers and gilded Andorian holly.
He resumed pacing.
By 0100 he had come up with a plan. He would wait until Keiko and Molly left for the fundraiser. Then, he would steal a runabout and take off for some uncharted settlement in the Gamma Quadrant, where he would live out the rest of his life under an assumed name. At Molly's graduation, one of her friends would ask, “Why isn't your father here?” and Molly would explain that “one Christmas, he forgot to get the turkey, and he had to leave.”
He walked over to the replicator, and ordered up the largest possible mug of the strongest possible coffee. He gulped it down, and slipped quietly out the door. If there was any chance that it was possible to acquire a turkey on short notice on this godforsaken space station, there was one person who could make it happen.
***
The last of the late-night barflies were trickling out of Quark's when Miles arrived. The waiters and dabo spinners were wearily tidying up. Most of them didn't even look up when he entered and headed straight for the bar.
“Good to see you, Chief,” said Quark, who was wiping down the bar with a rag. “We're closing up for the night, but can I get you something to go?”
Miles stood there for a moment, looking at him. “I hope so,” he said.
“Shouldn't you be home with your family?” said Quark. “We're right in the middle of that big hu-mon holiday, aren't we? I've been selling a lot of this 'egg nog' stuff, which, have you ever tried it?”
“I have,” said Miles.
“Vile,” said Quark. “You people have the most bizarre taste in foods and beverages. But, profit is profit, and this 'Criss-mass' is very profitable.” He leaned across the bar. “So. What can I do for you?”
Miles told him. Quark had been the one responsible for bringing in the freighters full of seasonal supplies from Earth all month, was it possible that one of them might still have a turkey in stock?
“Not much left from the food deliveries,” said Quark. “The ships have gone. Everything that's left is in my back room.” He folded his hands in front of him. “But, you may be in luck. I may have just what you're looking for. Wait here a moment.”
Quark disappeared into the back. Miles stayed where he was at the bar, his knee jiggling impatiently. If Quark didn't have anything for him, his next stop would have to be the docking pylons, and his new life in the Gamma Quadrant.
It took only a few minutes for Quark to reappear, but to Miles, it felt like a lifetime. The Ferengi dropped a bundle on the bar with a flourish.
“Congratulations, Chief,” said Quark. “You got the last one.”
It looked like a frozen, flesh-coloured bowling ball.
“What is that?” said Miles.
“It's a turkey,” said Quark.
“You sure about that?” said Miles.
“Are you accusing me of selling counterfeit turkeys?” said Quark.
It did sound like something Quark would do. But Miles was desperate, and he knew better than to say so.
“I'm sure it's fine,” said Miles. “What do you want for it?”
Quark told him.
“What?” said Miles. “That's outrageous!”
“Supply and demand, Chief,” said Quark. “Unless you can think of another place to get a turkey on a Bajoran space station.”
“You're a cruel man, Quark,” said Miles.
“I'm a businessman,” said Quark. “But I'll tell you what. You're a good customer. Why don't I knock off ... three percent?”
Miles stared at him, defeated. “Throw in a mug of your strongest coffee to go,” he said, “and you've got yourself a deal.”
“Pleasure doing business with you, Chief,” said Quark.
***
Miles was home by 0230. The first thing he did was replicate himself another cup of coffee. Then he got to work on the bird. By 0430, he had it more or less defrosted, with the help of a heated blanket, Keiko's hair dryer, and three more cups of coffee.
As it thawed, it became increasingly clear why this particular turkey was the only one that hadn't sold. The skin on the right drumstick was ripped in three places. Another slash was visible on the back. All in all, Miles's turkey looked as though it had made a break from the slaughterhouse and dragged itself down the road a ways before being captured and beaten to death by a drunken Klingon. In his head, Miles began to refer to the bird as Butch.
If disfigurement had been the worst thing to happen to Butch, Miles would have considered himself fortunate. But the worst thing was yet to come. The worst thing happened later. After lunch. After Keiko and Molly left for the fundraiser.
***
Before they left, Keiko dripped pine oil on some of the living room lamps.
“When the bulbs heat the oil up,” she said, “it'll smell like a pine forest.” Then she said, “I'm trusting you with this. You have to have the turkey in the oven–”
“By 1330,” said Miles. “Don't worry. I know what I'm doing.”
The worst thing began when Miles tried to turn on the oven.
The O'Briens didn't usually have an oven in their quarters. None of the residential quarters on the station had been designed with cooking in mind. Sisko had arranged for a proper kitchen area to be installed in the station commander's quarters as soon as it had been physically possible for him to do so, but that was a special case. For everyone else, cooking equipment had to be, essentially, rented. Ovens were in high demand around food-focused holidays, and Miles had, to his credit, remembered to reserve one well in advance.
What he hadn't thought to do was test it.
An unforgivable mistake, really, for an engineer on this particular space station.
He checked and re-checked the power source. Pressed every button. Turned every knob. Opened the door. Shut it. Opened it again. Nothing worked. The oven would not turn on.
Miles made himself another cup of coffee.
This was fine. Completely fine. He was Miles O'Brien. He was the man who damned near single-handedly kept the unholy hodgepodge of Cardassian and Federation tech that was Deep Space Nine from falling to pieces every other Tuesday. He could fix an oven. All he needed was a bit of time, and his toolkit.
***
An hour later, he sat back on his heels and accepted defeat.
It had taken him less than ten minutes to identify the source of the problem. Unfortunately, fixing it would require parts he didn't have, and figuring out a way to improvise would take too long. It was nearly 1430 already.
He needed to find another oven that could cook the bird, and cook it quickly.
Unfortunately, every oven on the station had been booked weeks ago, and every single one of those ovens probably already had a turkey in it.
There had to be another option.
At 1500 he knocked back one last cup of coffee and commed Chez Zimmerman, one of the few restaurants on the Promenade with a full, Earth-style kitchen. He was given the hostess desk.
“Do you cook... special menus?” he asked. “For people with special dietary needs?”
“We're the number one fine-dining establishment on a space station at the crossroads of the galaxy, sir,” said the hostess. “I assure you, we can accommodate any dietary needs.”
“If someone brings their own food,” said Miles, “because of a special diet. Would you cook it for them?”
“Of course, sir,” said the hostess.
“D'you happen to have a table free now?” said Miles.
“We do, sir,” said the hostess.
Miles looked at the turkey. “Come on, Butch,” he said, stuffing it into a bag. “We're taking a walk.”
***
The restaurant was all decked out in red and gold for the holiday. When Miles arrived, the hostess asked him if the rest of his party would be joining him soon?
Miles, slightly manic from an excess of caffeine and adrenaline, gave her a lopsided grin.
“Nope,” he said, patting the turkey, which was currently dripping juice all over the restaurant floor. “It's just me an' my chick.”
The hostess winced. Miles wobbled. He turned around at the sound of a throat being cleared behind him. He wasn't sure who it was he was expecting to see.
He wasn't expecting to see Garak.
He certainly wasn't expecting to see Garak standing arm-in-arm with a very concerned-looking Julian Bashir.
“Jul'yan!” said Miles.
“Hello, Chief,” said Julian. “Are you... alright?”
“Yeh,” said Miles. “Turkey took Molly to the big fundraiser. I brought Keiko here so they could cook her for me.”
“Oh,” said Julian.
“I mean the turkey,” said Miles, setting the bag down on the hostess stand.
“I see,” said Julian. “Would you mind if I just...” He pulled out his tricorder, disentangling his arm from Garak's as he did so, which... huh. That was new.
“What's all this about, then?” Miles asked, gesturing in a vaguely accusatory way at the two of them.
“We're having lunch,” said Julian, his eyes focussed on his tricorder as he scanned Miles.
“Yer having lunch, or, y'know, having lunch?” said Miles.
“We're having lunch,” said Julian. “Chief, exactly how much coffee have you had today?”
“Dunno,” said Miles.
“Excuse me,” said the hostess. Miles turned back to her. “Your table is ready,” she said.
“Heh. Y'hear that? My table is ready.” Miles smiled. At the hostess. At Julian. At Garak, who was apparently having lunch with the doctor. He turned to follow the hostess into the restaurant, putting one careful foot in front of the other. He was halfway to the entrance to the main dining room when he heard Garak call out his name.
“You forgot your ... chick,” said Garak, pointing to the bag Miles had left behind on the hostess stand.
***
The Bajoran waiter frowned at him.
“We have turkey on the menu, sir,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Miles. “But this is ... uh ... a special turkey. I was hoping you could cook my turkey.”
The waiter told Miles he would have to speak to the manager.
The manager was a tall, skinny Vulcan with reddish-brown hair. His face remained expressionless while Miles explained what he wanted. This was it, he thought. Either they would agree to cook his turkey, or he'd be making that trip to the Gamma Quadrant after all.
“You need to eat that particular turkey,” said the manager.
“Yes,” said Miles.
“Why?” said the manager.
“Do you know,” said Miles, “what they feed turkeys nowadays?”
“No, sir,” said the manager, his face impassive.
“They feed them...” Miles wasn't at all sure what they fed turkeys nowadays. Wasn't sure where he was going with this. He just know that he had to keep talking. “They feed them chemicals,” he said.
“Chemicals, sir,” said the manager.
“And hormones,” said Miles. “And steroids. And all of it replicated, too. I'm allergic to ... to replicated steroids. If I eat that stuff, I'll have a stroke or maybe a seizure, right here in the middle of your restaurant. Is that what you want to happen?”
The manager didn't say anything, just arched an eyebrow and stared at him as if he were a fascinating anthropological specimen. Miles kept going.
“I have my own turkey here,” he said. “It was raised special for me, on a farm down on Bajor. I butchered it myself. This morning. In the cargo bay. The only thing this turkey has eaten is... is...” he looked around. What had the turkey eaten? “Tofu!” he declared.
“Tofu, sir,” said the manager.
“And yogurt,” said Miles.
The manager and the waiter exchanged a glance. The waiter took the turkey without a word.
“You have those big convection ovens, right?” said Miles. “I have to have it back by 1800.”
“You must be very hungry, sir,” said the waiter. And he disappeared into the kitchen.
“Were you planning to wait here until the turkey is cooked?” the manager asked.
“Huh,” said Miles. “I guess that would be illogical. Wouldn't it?”
“I wouldn't presume to say, sir,” said the manager.
“Hah!” said Miles. “I like you. Tell you what. I'll free up the table. Come back later. Y'think I could get a coffee to go?”
Ten minutes later, the waiter emerged from the kitchen with the coffee. He paused before handing Miles the cup.
“Chef's putting the turkey in the oven now,” he said. “Uh. You said you butchered the bird yourself?”
Miles stared at him for a moment. Then he said, “You ask the chef if he has ever killed a turkey. You tell him that bird was a fighter.”
***
Miles was back at the restaurant by 1750. The waiter wheeled the turkey out of the kitchen at 1810. It was on a dolly, covered with a silver dome. Miles removed the dome and gasped.
It definitely didn't look like anything he could have cooked. There were frilly paper armbands on the drumsticks, a glazed partridge made of red peppers on the breast, a delicate silver gravy boat with steam wafting off it, and a generous serving of what appeared to be hasperat stuffing. Not exactly traditional, that last bit, but it smelled fantastic.
“Would you like me to carve it, sir?” asked the waiter.
“No thanks,” said Miles. “Can I borrow this dolly?”
“Can you ... what?”
“I can't eat this here,” said Miles. “I have to eat it...” Miles couldn't imagine where he had to eat it. “I have to eat it outside!”
“Outside, sir?” said the waiter. His eyes flickered to the large window that adorned the far wall, and its view of the black, star-speckled sky beyond.
“Not outside outside,” said Miles. “Obviously.” Rather than dig himself in any deeper, he simply took hold of the dolly and made for the exit. “I'll bring this back as soon as I can,” he called over his shoulder. “Thanks! And Merry Christmas!”
***
Miles was back in the family quarters by 1830. He set Butch down on the table, and stashed the dolly in the bedroom. Hopefully, he'd have time to smuggle it out later on. Keiko and Molly were due home any minute. He ripped the paper armbands off the bird and shoved them into the reclamator. After a moment's thought, he scooped off the red pepper partridge and shoved it into his mouth.
It was delicious.
He took a breath. Then another.
Then he poured himself a very large drink and went to sit down on the sofa.
Keiko really had done a wonderful job with the decorations. Their stark, Cardassian quarters looked bright and festive. They even smelled bright and festive. Like a pine forest.
“Uh-oh,” said Miles, and he jumped up. He took a ladleful of the turkey gravy and ran around the room, smearing it on light bulbs. That should do it, he thought. He stepped out into the corridor, let the door slide shut behind him, and counted to thirty. Then he went back in and inhaled deeply. It smelled like ... like Christmas. With a satisfied smile, he picked up his drink. “Cheers,” he said, to no one in particular.
Behind him, the door slid open, and in walked Keiko and Molly ... with Julian and Garak.
“We ran into them on the way home,” said Keiko. “I thought it would be nice to invite them in for a drink.”
“Oh,” said Miles. “Great. I'll ... I'll get the drinks, then.”
Miles walked over to the replicator, then came back to see Garak sitting on the sofa under the tall, swinging lamp that Keiko had brought back from her last trip to Bajor. A single drop of gravy was glistening on his forehead, just next to his ... spoon thing. Miles watched another drop fall. Watched Garak's puzzled frown as he reached up, wiped his forehead, and brought his fingers to his nose. Keiko and Julian hadn't noticed anything yet. Miles saw another drop about to fall.
He took a long swig of his drink, and set his glass down next to Keiko's hand-painted paper napkins.
“Keiko,” he said softly, “could you come here? There's something I need to tell you.”